


A Broken Frame

by kenjiiatosh



Series: Substandard Shelves [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, broken relationships, dirk & roxy as best friends, ignoring each other, pesterchum chats, trying to fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenjiiatosh/pseuds/kenjiiatosh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk Strider has a daily routine. He goes to work practically every day, only to return home and continue said work throughout the majority of the night. He hardly sleeps, doesn't eat enough, and certainly never changes his schedule. That is, at least, until his phone goes off in the middle of his work, shocking him out of his state of withdrawal, and proposing a few changes to his current isolated life style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Broken Frame

 

Your name is DIRK STRIDER, and you are somewhat of a closeted EGOTIST, that is, when you are not IMMERSED SHOULD DEEP in a pool of SELF-LOATHING. You are in possession of a GPA that would be considered MUCH TOO HIGH for someone of your age, after only a measly TWENTY-NINE years upon this Earth. You have a GENERAL SENSE OF KNOWLEDGE when concerning MOST DEPARTMENTS, are considered very INGENIOUS WITH YOUR HANDS, and are very ADEPT when working with MECHANICS AND SOFTWARE. You enjoy throwing down SICK NASTY BEATS and competing in RAP OFFS with the forms of ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE you create in  your spare time, as well as the fact that you have an INFATUATION WITH PUPPETS that your younger brother tends to think is OUT OF IRONY.

During this time of the day, you're usually found in your room, which functions both as a bunk for the night and a makeshift workbench for your mechanics. Despite your large intellect, and your history of being considered a young prodigy at age eleven, leading has never been a major factor in your life. You've always stayed satisfied handing off the limelight to any other, which is why you find yourself working under the employment of a major robotics company beneath the co-manager, rather than reigning in the controls and easily taking charge of the corporation. With this salary, you can afford a well-sized apartment in San Antonio, the second largest city in Texas - after Huston.

Thrusting open the window, you idle at the sill only a few moments before returning to your work. Another blazing day, sweat dripping down your brow as a clammy humidness settles around you, despite the short breeze now filing in. You've lived here for all of your life, so the musty tang that chafes your throat and stings your eyes is familiar, welcoming. Almost a comfort to return to. Sturdy hands hardly calloused 'round the fingers pick apart wiring, attentively and almost painstaking pull out screws, placing the remnants aside in labeled plastic bags before examining the fried circuit board. Hardly any of it is salvageable, but you manage to retrieve enough material to have made the trashed software worth it.

This is where you find yourself most days. Hardly ever taking the time to drabble in activities amusing and of personal interest to you, you instead are seated at your bench working through all hours of the night. Sleeping has never bode over well for you, rarely resting and easily woken. Pesterchum used to keep you up twenty-four seven, because you never had the decency to simply shut off your computer or turn the app on mute. Come to think of it, though, you aren't sure when you've last eaten, either. It's reached a point where you aren't quite sure how you still function as well as you do, nor how you've managed to keep yourself in such good condition when it comes to outward appearances. Windswept hair gelled back, a blonde so pale that it practically matches the white of your skin, broken only by the array of freckles splattered across the area. Broad shoulders and a thick stature, combined with your overwhelming height of 6'3, you give off such an intimidating aura that would leave anyone daring enough to oppose you several hundred leagues of fucked.

For a period of time, you had managed to ditch the whimsical glasses that were constantly perched on the bridge of your nose. You had been coaxed out of wearing them, even going so far as to bury them within a pile of other pieces of your past you had meant to put behind you, rather than laying them atop the nightstand as was usual. That age was far gone, though, and only shortly after those brief months of temporary confidence did you go digging through your boxes for the pointed shades. Now they adorned your face as comfortable as before, shielding you from observing eyes. It was easier to keep up the facade that way, easier to remain and be perceived as the cool guy, the one who never falls prey to the weakness of letting emotions slip past his defenses and show through. You have no problems with this routine, no qualms or questions. Instead you sit there tinkering, despite the fact that your mind is miles ahead of your limbs, until your phone goes off.

Well. That's new.

There are only three people who ever talk to you, all easily and conveniently listed on a single hand. The first of these is Dave Strider, or said younger brother. The kid is cool, and though you've never told him directly, you're proud of him. You're sure he knows this anyway, it's just the strider way - communicate through acts other than spilling emotions or piling up expressions. These days, rap offs between the two of you are even rarer than the chance of him beating you (though, seeing as how he's practically gone professional as a DJ now, you suppose all bets are off) and you know it's all riding on your shoulders. "Never talked to the kid enough," you used to chastise yourself, before switching to the fatalistic point of view and pretending it was inevitable, as well as better for the both of you. Now, sitting here, you realize just how wrong you were, and how much you miss your 'lil bro. You make a mental note to - if that isn't him messaging you anyway, that is - call him up later.

Then there's the company. As many people are included there, you list them all under one. They're practically the same to you anyway, and they all speak to you for similar reasons. Business. They need you to fill in, or work overtime, or pick up supplies and data on your way in tomorrow. It's structured and organized, more so than many of the other companies _you_ interviewed, the only reason you keep yourself at this job. It isn't even challenging anymore. You create more adept software on your own time.

Lastly, there's Lalonde. As much as you would have loved to have listed Roxy above the corporation clones, you can't. She doesn't talk to you much now, not nearly as much since your disappearance act. Withdrawing from all social networks and gatherings, spending time with no one and speaking to no one - not even to let them know you were alright. She wasn't pleased, but she understood enough to let you go through with it. Now that you've re-emerged from your cocoon and into the real world again, she holds you to it anyway. You think she feels somewhat betrayed, having ignored your best friend for so long. You think, in the back of your mind, that maybe you should contact her, too. It's been too long.

 

←←↔→→

You remind yourself that you're the one who broke it off when you see the familiarized old-fashioned style lighting your screen green. As much distance as was put between the two of you, as much as he tried to pry himself from your grasps in unspoken claims of being too clingy, it was officially you who ended it. You. "Be strong," you whisper. "Ignore it, don't let it get to you." You have too many charades riding on your pretenses of being cool to let it drop for such pathetic excuses.

Only, another ping goes off as you set the phone down, pressing the screen to the table and doing your best to distance yourself. Maybe if you pretend you are invincible, the vulnerability won't leak through. Maybe, if you pretend just hard enough, it will become slightly less false. (you aren't sure where, but you've heard that around before - pretty sure said writer was a little faulty in their head.)

When the third chimes, you take it as your hint to finally call up Roxy and apologize profusely to her. You didn't expect forgiveness, or even for her to answer necessarily, but she does. You don't even message her through pesterchum, but actually call her, and you think that means something to her, showing more emotion and tone in what she claims to be your usually chilly demeanor in that low southern drawl of yours than she ever thought possible. The conversation lasts for well over an hour, the minutes adding up, and you let the corner of your lips twitch up, temporarily having forgotten that cursed shade of green.

 

←←↔→→

It doesn't take long for Roxy to guess Jake's interference. Out of the blue you call her, and then continue to do so for the next four days. (The green text never stops, but you never dare to check what it says.) Rather than feeling angry or put off that it took a boy and heartbreak for you to crawl back to her, she understands. She welcomes you back with open arms, and for the first time in months you venture from your apartment for anything other than work or shopping for necessities. Meeting with her does you good, seeing that familiar bob of pure blonde with not a single hair out of place. She comforts you, yes, happy that you came back at all. You only let yourself ramble on for minutes at most. You're hurt, but you've hurt others too, and you're sorry. So, so sorry.

 "I already forgave you, silly." Her words are soft, and though less perky than what you've come to associate with her, it works. It works so well for you, and you dare a small smile for her, almost as if it's all you can give her. Of course, her face lights up then, eyes shining as she sees the remains of what used to be her best friend slowly being put back together. You don't like the spotlight, though, and so you turn the conversation back around to face her, listening as she easily goes off about what her life has been these past several months. It's comfortable, your silence, and you're happy for a moment.

 

←←↔→→

As this continues, so do the lines of green text. It begins to slowly pile up, until it reaches the point where even Lalonde tells you it's time to face and embrace it. With a sigh, you tell her you will when you've returned home. She doesn't believe you. You promise, then, even offering her your pinky. As she takes it, a slight smile playing at her lips, you confide in her that it is just something you need to do alone. Something you need to face by yourself. She understands, of course, and you don't fail to mention how you don't deserve such a friend as good as her. She agrees.

You don't.

 

 ←←↔→→

You've ruined enough already, and so you plan to hold true to your promise. You plan to, but the moment you walk through the door you can feel your wall crumbling. He was rooted so far into you, into who you were, that when he uprooted himself ("you uprooted _him_ ," you chasten yourself again) there was hardly anything left. Nothing salvageable, not worth saving, too hard to put it back together. You shoot her a text, instead. Tell her tomorrow, you'll do it tomorrow, you promise. You just need a night to compose yourself. You won't call until you have, and she gives it the okay. You wonder if she pities your pathetic excuse of a being.

 

←←↔→→

By the time tomorrow comes, you think you're less prepared than you were. You feel drunk on sadness, having settled with the idea of living broken forever. Not all machines are fixable, after all. You would know. Instead, though, you pull out your phone, cringing when you open to the green text. No way around it now. No point in delaying. That's one of the disadvantages of being an early rising on the off chance that you do sleep, however uneasily. Having to face your problems so early on in the day.

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 5:57  
  
GT: By the sweet nectar of the goddesses and all they reign over, old chap, I do believe it's been quite the fair amount of time that's been put between us!

GT: I suppose this is where I tell you we need to talk, and pray that you find somewhere deep within your cold steel metal-man heart the patience to indulge me.

GT: Don't leave me hanging without so much as a chance, Strider. I've forfeited my policy of never requesting a feelings jam in favor of keeping my manly pretenses intact for you, after all.

 

GT: I've seen neither head nor tail of you for months.

GT: I daresay I miss you.

 

GT: I suppose I deserve such a cruel ignoring being who I am, but you've always been the better man, Strider.

GT: Dirk.

GT: Please.

The please almost breaks you, almost has you responding right now without so much as finishing reading Jake's train of thought, but with a huff of breath and a few null moments of running fingers idly through your hair, you continue to read. It would be a shame to give in so easily, anyway. You don't know if you could live with yourself if you had a heart so delicate to be torn by a simple 'please'. It's already hard enough to find yourself as no one other than Dirk Strider every morning.

GT: I've given you plenty of space and plenty of time to heal.

GT: Not to say you needed it.

GT: The healing.

GT: Not to say I was so important in your life, I mean, but.

GT: This isn't coming out quite how I'd like.

 

GT: Looking back, perhaps space was just the opposite of what you needed.

GT: Perhaps I waited too long.

To be honest, you aren't sure it would have helped either way. You think, maybe, that after everything you went through you needed the space. You needed the time away, and the chance to show him just how much it hurt to be ignored. You aren't even sure what Jake's been up to these past several months, and you aren't sure you want to know. He never seemed to care that you were hurting, for surely he knew. Surely he saw how much it tore at you to be put up on a shelf like that. Storage. Just a knick-knack, something of which still looked nice enough on the outside, but no longer had any use. You just aren't sure you would have been able to bounce back from that sooner - or if you can even do so now.

GT: Please, Dirk, just let me explain.

GT: See it from my position.

You know you could never hold a grudge against him. Not against the only person to ever understand you, to ever keep up with you at such a pace. Jake English was not hard to understand, in all of his complexity. Guns, the outdoors, films, and anything that gave him the slightest sense of adventure. You understand him quite easily, and you would dare to say he understands you almost just as well. He can read your reactions even better than Roxy most of the time.

GT: Alright, perhaps I didn't have the best position then, nor do I now. 

GT: Circumstances have changed.

GT: Now I find myself with my knees in the dirt, looking up at you and pleading for forgiveness.

GT: ...

GT: Not even forgiveness, then. Just a word.

GT: A word or two to set things right between us.

 

GT: You've always been a very taciturn fellow.

GT: I see that hasn't changed now.

GT: Always elusive, old chap, hiding behind any screen you could.

GT: How I managed to pry you from your apartment even once, I must say, is a task so far beyond amazement in its completion that its almost incomprehensible.

Taciturn. Expanding our vocabulary, are we English? You take a breath of air, then, swallowing it down as if there would never be enough to fill your lungs. It was unsurprisingly painful, reading through each personal message directed at you alone. If there was ever even the slightest chance of you recovering, it was surely gone now. You're just as damaged as when the two of you first split, and a portion of a broken frame doesn't sit all on its own. It needs the rest of its pieces to hold itself together, to form the bigger picture. It takes both halves. This is why you brace yourself, now preparing to read the few messages left - the ones from yesterday. Jake was never an early riser, not nearly as early as you. He must have not risen yet, letting you beat him to the punch.

GT: You've always enjoyed irony, haven't you dearest chum of mine?

GT: Perhaps, to be ironic, I should ask you out once more.

GT: NOT ON A DATE!!!!!

GT: just... out.

GT: to meet.

GT: to be ironic. 

TT: Okay.

You take another deep breath, collapsing onto the bed once more before your knees can give out from underneath you. You don't even make it out your bedroom, and you hadn't even realized your fingers had typed out the words until it was sent. There's only silence between you, and you aren't sure if you're grateful or not that there isn't an immediate response. It's not as if you're the one begging for forgiveness, there shouldn't be this pressure on you. There shouldn't be this overwhelming weight on your shoulders, as if any minute you are to be crushed by the green text that appears on your screen.

You can't help but think of how his text matches his eyes.  There isn't anything better to do while you wait, and you told Roxy you wouldn't call her until it was done. Technically, you had really only agreed on reading his messages and letting him know you hadn't committed suicide, but you felt that would be a pathetic excuse to use as an out from the situation. Letting him know you were alive wasn't going to be enough; not this time. Instead, you sit there and patiently (anxiously) await a response.

You're bordering on the line of dozing off when you hear the ping, and immediately your eyelids flutter open, searching out the device that managed to jam its way between the cushions as you drifted off.

GT: Goodness gracious, Dirk!

GT: Is that indeed my best of bros?

TT: I trashed the auto responder ages ago.

TT: He induced too many problems, and I needed the scrap parts.

You don't mention that you can't really consider the two of you best of bros anymore. You don't mention that the two of you are hardly acquaintances at this point. You don't want to burst his bubble.

GT: Gosh!

GT: Have you been reading my messages all this time, ignoring me?

GT: Well, I suppose I don't have much room in this boat of ours to complain, do I now?

GT: but meeting up!

GT: Were you serious?

GT: You tend to jest with me most cruelly at times, especially when I am at my weakest.

TT: There would be no reason to.

TT: If I wanted to make this more difficult, I would have just gone on ignoring you.

GT: You tend to be difficult at the worst of times, dear fellow.

GT: But worry not!

GT: I have an endless bounty of understanding over in my corner of the world, such will not stand in our way!

GT: We shall have this meet up sooner or later, then?

TT: Sooner.

GT: Jolly good!

GT: You're positive you want to do this face to face?

GT: As much as I'd like to apologize in person, I'm much more concerned that my chap is more comfortable.

You're unsure whether or not Jake's changed. On one hand, he uses those same old-timer words that sweet talked you into this position in the first place, and he seems to be just as much as a cheeky and naive asshole as before. On the other, he seems to be trying to put forth some effort in being considerate, which comes as a shock to you. You suppose you'll find out soon enough, and have to admit you're surprised at how well you are handling this conversation. True, you don't have to worry about keeping any dismaying tones from your pitch or your voice breaking, but you like to imagine you'd come off just as calm and easy going in person as online. Just one more facade, one you're well adjusted to. It was easy enough to fall back into the bantering conversations held between you two as it was before, after all.

TT: In person.

TT: Tone doesn't transcend through text, and that green does your colorful vocabulary poor justice.

GT: Splendid!

GT: Let us meet up now, then, with all due haste!

GT: I shall be dressed and out the door within minutes!

TT: Jake.

GT: No time at all, dear fellow!

GT: Tis a grand day outdoors, and I am much excited to venture out to meet you once more.

TT: Jake.

GT: I wish you God's speed!

GT: Surely, I am to jump at such a chance, rather than wasting time sitting within the darkness of my apartment!

TT: God help me, Jake English, if you don't shut the fuck up for a moment and let me speak, I'll have your head mounted on my wall before you have a chance to so much as grovel at my feet.

GT: ...

TT: We have yet to even pick a place to meet or dine, Jake.

TT: It would be impossible to meet, should we not even have a site in store for us.

GT: Heavens to Betsy, I do believe you are right!

GT: How could such an important fact as such escape me?

TT: I wouldn't worry too much.

TT: Everything escapes you.

TT: You better not half-ass this, though, Jake English.

TT: If I see anything less than a perfectly full and voluptuous rump seated before me, I will not hesitate to storm out of there.

TT: In fact, I will fly off the handle.

TT: I will do a fucking pirouette off the handle, into an endless pit of get-the-fuck-out-of-my-life-for-good.

GT: My goodness, Dirk, I get the point!

GT: Enough of your overly dramatic and incredibly hard to decipher metaphors.

GT: I will be giving this my all, and giving every bit of attention I am in possession of to you.

GT: Where shall we meet?

This never really occurred to you. The fact was that you'd have to pick, and so you do a quick mental scan of all the nearby cafes and restaurants that you don't mind all too much. You can't pass on the opportunity to pick something ridiculous, as you rarely go out, even with your recently reborn friendship with Roxy.

TT: Madhatters Tea.

GT: The old tea house?

GT: I remember that quaint little cafe very fondly!

GT: Now may I rush off with all speed?

GT: I haven't had the chance to dress for the occasion yet, and not all of us are early risers.

TT: Sure.

TT: I'll meet you there.

GT: Once again, jolly good!

GT: I shall see you there!

golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering  timaeusTestified [TT]

TT: ...

TT: See you there, English.

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT]

If there was ever such a thing as a mix between a smirk and a frown, that is what adorns your face now as you carelessly pull the first t-shirt you find over your head. Fuchsia, almost completely plain sparing the deformed heart withstanding in the center of your chest. Adorning fingerless gloves and grey jeans, held up only by a thin orange belt wrapped round your waist, you reach for your shades knowing full well that the Australian boy will be discomforted in seeing you having returned to them. This doesn't stop you from seeking out their protection, the thin wall separating you from the rest of the population. The last item you grab is a thin hoodie of orange and black, sleeves pushed up to just bellow your elbow, before slipping on shoes. It isn't as if it's chilly outdoors. If you're lucky, there may even be a slight breeze.

If you're lucky, you may piece together this relationship just yet.

It's with this hope that you pocket your phone and leave your threshold, locking the door behind you. It never occurs to you to let Roxy know just of what you have accomplished, but that can always come later. She can hear of your triumph or failures tonight, after you've had time to actually hold said conversation and process whatever actually happens. You aren't sure you're prepared, to be honest, but you have nothing else to go on. Instead, you put one foot in front of the other, and pray to the gods you are sure aren't listening that you can fix this.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize to anyone who has actually read this the whole way through. If your brain hasn't melted yet, kudos to you. I wanted to finally contribute to the fandom, so I give you my first born, my first fanfiction. (or my first finished fanfiction, seeing as how I had started one other, but quit two [poorly written] chapters in.) I think it actually took longer to code it than to write it, damnit.
> 
> Oh! also, there actually is a place in San Antonio called Madhatters Tea house and café, in case you were wondering.
> 
>  
> 
> **Edit!: I finally got around to reading through this again, and I went back and fixed whatever mistakes or redundancies I could find. If you see any more, please let me know!**


End file.
